The Web of the Other
by Public Valentine
Summary: Webs glistening red, he did not progress. Stubborn and impatient, he fled. Tired and eager, he learned. New and refreshed, he returns ignorant. The Other still waits. He will return to his web and find out who he is. The man, the spider, or the Other.
1. Chapter 1

**As I didn't want to lose the reviews and didn't want them to remain on a story where they wouldn't be relevant, I rewrote the story just because of that. Yes, just because I wanted to keep the precious reviews because they are a sweet internet monies. Oh, and the fact that it was a load of... well, bad grammar.**

**Complete with proofreading, I hope you all will enjoy this rewrite, which is in fact a rewrite. Thank you.**

**~Public Valentine**

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><p>The dry spell about the city seemed to have ended. For a week and then some there had only been a few robberies here and there, a couple of busts at night here, and surprisingly, no big super villain throw downs at all. Tonight was the most diverse bust he'd make in since he came. Admittedly, before it would have been quite a challenge to complete without busting through the walls and coming through somewhere else for a surprise attack. But because he'd been busting up deals that made this seem like a play date they served to raise his standards quite a bit.<p>

He had seen better drug deal/ransom operations before. Some of them even managed to fix a chop shop and prostitution and fight rings into them. So now he wasn't thinking it to be the most original thing ever, but it was welcomed. It killed his calm mood he had acquired for the day, but was still welcomed.

Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to be thinking about such things while standing in the middle of the aforementioned drug deal/ransom.

He looked around the room, his eyes half lidded under his mask. Before, there had to have been at least fifty people in the room. Fifteen were now laying on the ground, three thrown out of the building and laid outside the unsightly holes in the rusted metal, and four where hanging precariously by steel cables tied along the girders at the gaping ceiling where no one could see or hear them.

One of those eight was current holding a girl by the neck. He looked like he took too many steroids or worked out too much. His hold around her neck was tightening so much she was beginning to make a chocking sound while she tried to pry him away and he was sweating. He was nervous. He was thinking what kind of freak could take out that many people and still be standing. If he didn't calm down, it was her who was going to be killed.

In the corner behind him to his right, right by a small hole in the wall another girl was cowering where two men held her. She was barely older than a toddler, dirty with grime and, well, dirt, and tears. She was safe for now, but no one in that warehouse was safe in that kind of situation. Anything could happen.

The cops would be there soon. He had the common sense to call them before he went in and took everybody out. He didn't need them crashing inside, guns blazing, shooting everyone in sight, including him and possibly injuring innocents. It was common knowledge to him that that was what they usually did whenever he was involved in something.

They'd all relax if he looked injured... or looked as if he was giving up. It'd make it a whole lot easier to just take the muscle head out and save the girl, but that wouldn't save the other one _or_ stop the bullets. Unwilling to take any chances, his shoulders slumped and he let his knee buckle and grabbed his arm in pain.

Four gunmen trained their aim on him from the interrupted drug deal. One more stood close to the girl in the corner, his trembling thumb on the back of the gun, and his sweaty trigger finger slipped from the trigger to his hand. As he looked away from the man holding the girl, arm around her neck loosened. In seconds her face reverted from the increasingly distraught pink that it had.

Under his mask he glared at the one holding the older girl. His grip tightened as if he could see his eyes narrow. The mask's eyes probably did, in fact. He had no gun, there was little damage he could do, but from the type of his physique he was likely to severely dent a stove with his bare hand if he so wished, or if his temper got out of hand. He knew that type. They were ready to act, not ready to think. The muscle bound idiot hadn't had any idea what to do if he was taken out mere minutes ago, or even seconds ago. He wasn't ready, and that… among other things, was a big weakness.

At that, the four started to move his way. The gunman, and the two holding the girl slowly etched their way to his place in the middle of the warehouse and another was standing near him, crowbar in hand. It would seem that they thought they had it under control. With their 'victory' a certainty, the girl wouldn't be used as a hostage, he'd be dead, and they could all get back to work.

But then the cops would come if that should happen. The hostages would _still_ be hostages and someone would get killed. He purposely limped to the side and groaned in mock pain, thinking, _Not while I'm here._

With their guns on his front and the other's on his back there as bound to be some collateral. The little girl being held was forgotten and she ran to a different side of the warehouse with no one to stop her. Had she not have run, bullets would have flown and she'd run right in the path of one that again, if she didn't choose to run in that instance, would have went through the shoddy interior of the hole in the wall to be exact.

It was complicated- had she not ran, something would have happened should he not decided to loosen up and she should choose to run when bullets were shot, but she'd _only _get shot if she ran the way she just did then, which was...

He smirked. To the door. Smart girl.

The buzzing in his head barely decreased to a dim tingle, something that was still as equally annoying as a wasp's buzz and might as well have been at full strength. It did little to calm him, and in turn, calm everyone else to make this all easier. The danger was increasing, causing him to bend and twist into a form that would allow him to attack, react, and defend in the quickest way possible. He strained to keep himself in a nonthreatening form, straying away from his agile crouch, as unsettling as it was.

Ignoring the urge to backhand one of the nearest goons as their dark laugh reached his ears he leveled his gaze back at the head of the operation, who had some point wiped his head of the sweat and obtained a pathetic example of a confident grin with a somewhat nervous grin and made it seem like he was having trouble standing. He stumbled backward and gripped his arm with a bit back grunt of pain. The leader laughed a confident, arrogant laugh as his ego seemed to bolster. His grip on the girl eased even further

He shook his head, giving the impression that he was trying to catch his bearings and said, "L-Let her go." He cast aside his low surprise for how low and deep his voice was, and continued. "The cops are on their way. You have nothing to gain from keeping her."

He cast a small glance at the last place he had seen the younger girl and cursed. She was too far away for him to sense with the dim buzzing. For once, he wished it was as loud as an alarm. But if it was still that low then that meant that the danger level was low as well and she was fine. For now. "And you have nothing to gain from keeping any of these people here." His eyes, both sets of them, visibly narrowed. "So _give up_ and let them go."

He almost smirked when the leader cursed under his breath about the cops, but then he laughed again. It wasn't confident, it wasn't arrogant either- it was a scared person who had no idea that he was intelligent enough to be nervous when he was backed against a wall. He too said something in return but it was ignored. It was fairly easy to guess what he said exactly. The pitch of his voice and the return of his sweat told everything that needed to be known. But the last part and what came after it was exactly what he had been waiting for.

He himself let out a weak, tired laugh, as if he'd taken one too many punches to the chest. The weaker he acted, the more lax and less alert they became. "Did... Did you really... think that they wouldn't come eventually? With all the shooting..." He looked around the room again and started to cackle like a man gone insane who knew he was going to die. "All the shooting didn't do _anything! _I...I kicked every single one of your asses!" He coughed and grabbed his stomach and stumbled once more before lifting up his mask so they could see him grin. Five seconds. _"Who's your collective daddy?"_

The leader growled. "Take care of this freak."

He pulled down his mask and made barely visible nods, his eyes watching the steps of the nearest person coming up from the left and right sides when they could. _Three, two, one..._

By the time he had twisted into a crouch, ready to attack it was too late. Two hands from different sides clasped around his shoulders, attempting to grip tight enough to hurt, but failed. He was whirled around by one of them and idly elbowed them in the chin just as one gunman far in front of him hugged the wall and looked out the window and yelled, "B-boss! They're here! He ain't lyin' boss!"

He fell back to his heels to avoid the punch to his face and pushed backward into a flip, his foot colliding with the jaw of his attacker, and his other one kicking him to the other goon but not before he yanked the crowbar he had overlooked, sending them flying toward the opposite end of the warehouse where they almost fell through the wall.

"I'll take that," he murmured.

The gunman that was behind him wasted no time in firing off a shot as well as a curse, causing him to jerk his body to the side, avoiding anything agile or nimble, and jumped into the air. The gunman's aim followed him sloppily, bullet being fired every which way but never hitting him even as he entered point blank range. Instead of kicking him in the chest, he sailed over him, grabbing his gun in the process, and yanked him to the back of the warehouse where his head expanded the hole in the wall three fold, and he was knocked unconscious.

He nodded, _that_ was how it was supposed to happen. It wasn't a bullet that was not supposed to go through there, nor was the girl supposed to be there. It was some guy's head being... stuck in a wall.

His hands were used to scale the wall as he kicked off of the ground and then kicked off from the wall to avoid the bullets that continued to sail from the drug deal's remaining participants. He jumped up to a girder and dashed from each, avoiding the bodies hanging from the steel cables and using the cables to substitute for a particular trademark of his he was lacking that night. The lights of the sirens were visible from up there and after the gunmen began to reload and he took the moment to listen and crouch in the darkness right above them.

He scratched his neck and lifted up his mask to get some much needed air. Had he been in costume, his _old costume_, all they would see was a red and blue blur scurrying around the room in seemingly random motions. Now it was black and grey with a very out of place red blur being mixed in at the very top, where his head was. He sighed. He had to wear the civvies this time. The jacket was distracting. It's billowing had him on edge to avoid not tripping over it, even though it was nigh impossible for him to do that with anything, but it did serve as a good distraction and target.

As the megaphone sounded, he went back into action, side kicking the boxes to his side in a full split to a scissor kick over the edge to distract, and took advantage of it by vaulting over the girder before pushing himself off of the underside and rocketing to the ground and kicking a goon in the head. He didn't chance it and jumped back into the air, as one gunman hadn't been distracted, but his aim was obstructed.

From the moment his foot had connected with the gunman's head, the buzzing in his own head resumed. With every second it would change. Should he dash right, into the light, bullets trailed the darkness in the path that he came from, embedding themselves in the ceiling and wall he galloped with his hands unnaturally on and were horribly late as he pushed from the ceiling to the ground, rocketing himself to two of the three gunmen left, one leg going in a full split to swipe one across the chin, and one hand precariously balancing his entire body by hand as he pushed up in a spin top twirl, his other fist colliding with yet another set of ribs, breaking three of them on impact with his other leg not too far behind, assuredly sending the second gunman flying into the wall behind him, crashing through the rusted and dilapidated metal.

The path to left promised trials that required his agility, something he couldn't use at the moment: jumping over a rally of bullets and ducking to the side before leaping to the wall, were he'd have to dodge a tackle by twisting into a flip. It would take longer that way, considering he wouldn't be able to get a clear hit in unless he decided to get sloppy and chance being shot. It was easier and more effective to use stealth and brute force where it was due than unnecessary acrobatics this time around.

Taking the easier route, he leaped into the line of fire, bullets amazingly sailing under his arms and aside his neck as he twisted just as one got into point blank range, avoiding it completely, though no one would ever see how. His legs bent so far back his knees could touch his shoulders, opportunely kicking out with lightning speed into the chest of one gunman, nearly knocking him unconscious on impact while his attacker vaulted off of his shoulders as he fell to the ground.

His flip from the collapsed gunman now gasping for air as he lost consciousness rendered the third stunned; his expression inopportunely frightened as the cold white eyes of his attacker's eyes froze him in place.

His movements became more fluid and still to avoid the semi-automatic fire of the last gunman that would have most definitely hit him if decided to move too much. He rebounded off of a nearby steel column and swiped the third dealer with the back of his hand as he made an awkward choking sound when his face collided.

The final gunman ran for cover, his fire unrelenting. He wondered briefly how many bullet he could fit in that particular gun. In all of his time looking at guns he never bothered to actually _look_ at one and with good reason. Avoiding an array of bullets that sailed past his head, he slammed his palm to the the ground, ripping up a piece of concrete from the ground and threw it at the fleeing man just as he turned around, causing it to hit him in the chest.

His face contorted into a grimace, the concrete not yet colliding with the man. The force that the concrete collided at him with would have been enough to knock the wind from him and make him collapse to the ground had he _not_ tried to _block it_, gasping for air. He would have been alive and not _seriously_ injured. Instead, he was groaning loudly in pain as the concrete fell from his broken arms and he hadn't screamed before he was staring face to face with two big black and white eyes before his vision went black.

He jumped away as the body crumpled to the ground; at the most, all he could do was spare a small wince.

Landing in a crouch, a dozen yards away from the last dealer to fall, he snorted, his gaze once again trained on the 'leader' that was now literally backed against the wall with the eldest girl in hand. Yet again, he had no weapon, but his muscles were tighter than they had ever been.

Unlike the younger one, this girl didn't have the common sense to run. He rolled his eyes behind his mask and leaped toward them only to stop on a nearby wall as two things he hadn't want to happen, happened.

_Click._

"Freeze dirtbag!"

The police… he had really bad luck with the police. "Back away from those two and get down on the ground! Now!" They never gave him a chance to explain himself… ever. "I said now!"

He scowled, the eyes of his mask adjusting accordingly. Worst timing ever.

The group of policemen didn't bother to wait any longer, which was no surprise, and decided that; 'Well there are all of these bruised, unmoving bodies lying around this shady warehouse and, this guy and another guy are still standing! But wait- the _other_ guy is protectively holding that young woman to him! These unmoving bodies must be corpses despite their groans of pain and he must be trying to kill them all! We better shoot! Come on everybody! Shoot!'

His face crumpled in pain he knew would come. That was _exactly_ what they were thinking. And with only thing that would stand in the way between the bullet and the girl, and unfortunately the leader was him, this would turn out bad for him like always.

He dashed from his place on the wall as fast as he could as shots were fired at his place and then trailed after his blur, grabbing the girl and knocking the giant of a man in the head in annoyance and ran up the wall behind them, using one hand to help scale it. The bullets trailed after him in the darkness and after, where he was on the ground and slammed his fist into the muscle head's chest, rendering him unconscious.

The shot hadn't even registered in his mind. It was clouded by the buzz that turned into a faint alarm, like the ones he used to hear when he was a child in the basement of his school from the top floor. The ones there would always go on first, and then the others would follow. First it was that sense, and everything else. The adrenaline, the muscles, the movement... And by the time the alarm in the basement reached him right outside of his class, he had to deal with the noise first, as he always sat next to the door.

There was the mind numbing pain as the feeling of thin razors being shot from his wrists made a squelching sound, and then he screamed.

The line shooting from his wrist was almost too thin for anyone to see, if not for its glistening red dripped from small tear drop shaped holes in his wrist and dropped to the ground in tandem as a scream of pain erupted from the policeman, who, like every other person on the receiving end of a backup gun barrel, had his gun explode on him as it was tapered in an extremely thin but visibly smoking red net.

His yell of pain turned into a growl and he dashed toward the officer in a blur. His pain wrist turning into anger, he almost forgot to hold back as his fist roughly crashed into the policeman's jaw with enough force to knock him unconscious as he skidded along the ground. It wasn't enough force to send him flying like all the other goons, but it served his morbid satisfaction at the crunching sound of the policeman's jaw undeniably _cracking_ under pressure.

He staggered back, holding his wrist in pain as blood dripped from it like a cut vein. The other officers shouted after the fallen policeman and would have fired on him instantly and the girl in the process, had they not turned around to find the both of them gone.

XxxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

He attempted to ignore the stabbing pain seeping through his body as he held the girl close to him. His mask was pulled up, allowing him more fresh and cool air as he dashed across the rooftop and jumped to the next, leaving the dilapidated warehouse behind. The girl squirmed in his grasp idly. She wasn't fighting for him to let go, especially when he cleared the street wide gap and landed in a dark section of the roof covered by a water tower. She remained quiet and the only thing that was loud enough to hear was the sound of his shoes against the ground and his shallow exhales of pain.

He looked over the edge to see the alignment of cop cars in the street, their sirens lighting up the entire block. A single news van waited on the edge of them all, probably forced to stay away from the crime scene. To his left, there was a sizeable alley, one dark enough for him to put her so he could flee. As he moved toward the alley, he caught her worried gaze at the little girl who was in one of the cars with a blanket around her.

"She's your sister?" He shut his mouth one second too late.

She jumped in surprise and looked up at him before hesitantly nodding. With his free hand he pulled down his mask and crawled over the edge of the building until it was safe to drop her down. As he was about to leave, she tugged at his sleeve.

"Spider-Man?" She asked quietly.

Behind his mask he frowned lightly, but all she could see was a barely discernable nod. She nodded as well and backed up, muttering a meek thank you. She said it once more, loud enough for him to hear. "T-Thank you."

He stared at her when she walked into the light, a nearby officer taking notice of her. She shouted for her sister, her voice tired and hoarse. He supposed it was too much to ask for even a little bit of joy in her voice, her happiness to be saved, or even the small possibility that someone was glad he was back. She probably didn't _believe_ him either- he wasn't the short kid in a red and blue costume anymore. All he had was the red mask, complete with street clothes.

It was just like it was before he had left. He frowned under his mask, crawling up the wall with his uninjured hand and holding the bleeding wrist to his chest, but then shook his head. She had just gone through _a lot_. She was probably kidnapped and faced multiple threats on her, and her sister's life. Happiness wasn't the first thing that should have been on her mind, especially for _his_ timely arrival. It was her sister who was her responsibility, and now she was able to keep that and her. He was almost too late then. That was too much of a close call. Her and her sister would live now and that was all that mattered, not receiving a standing ovation for some teenager in a super hero mask and civvies saving the day.

He shook his head and jumped to the roof once more. He took off his mask and wiped his bloody wrist onto his shirt and jacket before walking to the side of the water tower where a bag had been set on the inside of it, obstructed by a thin layer of completely white webbing. He ripped it off and took the bag out whereupon he stuffed his mask inside and glowered at two silver scowled at them. They had jammed _again _when he needed them most. He took them out, almost crushing them in annoyance.

He knew he couldn't rely on them for everything, but they had jammed right after he had put the bag aside too. He adjusted one of them idly until he heard a click and then snapped it around his unwounded wrist. In seconds his other wrists and part of his forearm had been tightly wrapped tightly in a makeshift cast.

Now his night was over. He was eager to sleep. His jetlag from many days ago still didn't seem to wear off yet. Perhaps it was because of the lack of sleep he endured before he got off of the plane and after. He walked towards the edge of the building and knelt down into an agile crouch, his knees touching his shoulders unnaturally and looked across the lower rooftop that was concealed in darkness with a distant gaze. She had called him 'Spider-Man'. He laughed a small, disbelieving laugh. Not in that outfit he wasn't.

For a moment he let the small current of wind brush over him, shivering as it made contact with his hands. Then, the dropped down into the darkness of the lower rooftop, the brown bag at his side and his jacket billowing while his covered arm remained close to his chest. He reached the end of that rooftop in less than a second and repeated the process until his silhouettes shadow could be seen far away, at his previous perch.

Central Park was a ways away and he had a bus to catch.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'd say I won't say Read and Review... but I already did.**

**Disclaimer: You know the drill; Don't own, but sometimes I dream about the fantastical days where a possibility I could have a job at Marvel let me think there's a chance I could have a ****job at Marvel. Maybe. Just sayin.**

**Just a filling for the action cookie.  
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><p>He hissed.<p>

The red tint of his webbing had become saturated as if the blood hadn't stopped flowing from his wrists yet. The formerly white substance had turned a dark burgundy color over the hole in his wrist and was slowly spreading. It remained unmoving, like an extremely snug sweater, which made it all the more frustrating to not rip it off and scratch at the wound. The pain had lessened considerably from before, just like it had the few other times he endured it. It was now a numbing sting, much like getting thrown through a brick wall and having a cinder block fall on his head, but with his wrist. Still, that feeling seemed to be much better than before.

He clenched his fist; his palm was still bloody as he hadn't had time to wash it before catching the bus. His fingers twitched hesitantly, almost making the spider fanged shape he had done with his shooters but didn't complete the form, instead remaining crumpled like they had been bent. He was briefly curious if his artificial webbing would stop the bloody substance from seeping out if he did so. As if to roughly coax him out of such a foolish thought, his wrist throbbed in pain and he nearly started writhe around, only biting his tongue to hold back a furious scream of rage.

Unfortunately, it turned into a distraught choking sound that wasn't completely inaudible. Several passengers on the very same bus looked from their seats at the odd young man sitting in the back with a bloody hand, a tired, annoyed, and an impatient disposition, and the strange burgundy armband around his wrist. Some of them paid no mind. The old lady across from him however stared at him curiously, her eyes moving from his hand to his forearm encased in webbing, which, at such a close proximity, looked more like a white cloth stained with blood than an armband, and noticed the way he was hissing in pain.

He reached out with his uninjured hand without looking and grasped the frilly blue handkerchief gratefully, muttering his distracted, and slightly hoarse, thanks. He also didn't need to hear her say he was welcome a second time, seconds later, even though she had only said it once.

She was kind enough not to ask questions and merely looked up the aisle where some people where still sending him looks. In seconds the bus had rolled to a stop and the old lady climbed off. He had heard, 'Try to be careful dear" twice in twenty seconds, but it was only once. Still he nodded, a small smile creeping up on his somewhat sweaty face.

The passengers of the bus slowly dissipated, their looks along with them, dwindling twice over. He got to watch them step of the bus twice and both times did they cast their curious looks and sometimes their presumptive glares. For those that glared at him, thinking him guilty of something unsavory, he was glad to see go. Seeing it twice was just the icing on the cake when they tried to continue their glares as the bus went on without them.

He spared a few glances out the window by the time he was nearly alone on the bus, and the only one in the back of it. The bus had crossed the bridge, passed the water and he his shoulders drooped when the white sign in the darkness read, 'Welcome to Bayville.'

He nursed his wrist one last time, avoiding the look of the driver from the rear-view mirror, as he could already see himself getting off of the bus in a little over twenty seconds time. He forced the sight from his head, the soft throbbing in his head ceasing as he idly scratched his webbing and added some more.

He readied for his own stop, letting his wounded hand fall to his lap as he collected his bags. It'd heal soon enough.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He quietly sighed as the wonderful feeling of his wrist going slightly slack and his entire forearm falling to sleep caused his shoulder to droop. The webbing had done its job of cutting off the circulation and suppressing the wound and now it would continue its job by serving as a cast as it began to harden to a stone like texture until he chose to take it off. He was slightly worried that he'd suffer an infection for once, though the previous times it had happened it was his own webbing that caused this so he figured it would be alright that his own webbing that was fixing it. And the thought of rubbing alcohol being poured on the hole above his wrist wasn't very appealing either.

He had curled up into a huddle, his head tilting downward to avoid the light. He could feel himself fall asleep as he held his arm to his chest and rocked a little until the wheels on the bus final began to stop, an event he heard three times. He opened his eyes, cracked his neck and yawned. With his arm almost entirely asleep the pain was fading steadfastly and only left behind a numb throb. As he readied to get up, he looked at his wrist one more time, only to find the webbing hardened and dark red, having absorbed and spread the blood that came from his wrist.

When the bus finally stopped, he picked his bags up and walked off.

The light of the bus in the night faded as he was left in the darkness. He was urged to compare the quietness of the little village to Manhattan or even Queens. It was completely silent. There were no sirens or screams, or the scent of exhaust in the air that he remembered from the burrow. He couldn't even hear the local married couples having a drunken spat either. The night was beautiful and the air was fresh, unlike the dirty fog in the Barrio.

Then, he jumped in the air to avoid being stabbed in the neck by three glistening claws. As he descended to the ground, he launched one of his bags at his attacker and leaped to the side as soon as his feet hit the concrete, vaulting over their shoulders and grabbing hold of their dingy tank top to throw them into the stop sign he had passed seconds ago, denting the sign backwards with a dull creak.

No longer able to ignore the terrible smell of cheap beer and cologne and an expensive cigar he frowned, his face curling up into a grimace. "I hope I dislocated a couple of joints for that, Logan."

The mutant of the X-Man rose from the ground and cleared the ten foot gap between them in under two seconds, this time his fist going for the teen's face, which was easily blocked. It strained slightly against his palm until he dropped and his foot whirled to the ground in an attempt to knock him off of his footing. He received a foot to the chest for his efforts, and collided with the stop sign once more, that time pushing the metal pole back a foot or so.

"As much as I appreciate you're caring enough to come here and try to stab me," he began, picking up his locked suitcase and walking over to the slightly shorter man who growled and crawled off of the ground, "You can't sneak around in the dark when the other side can _smell_ you a mile away."

Letting out a low grunting sound, Peter wasn't sure if Logan choked on his cigar before he spit it out and stomped it. He noticed the man pointed to his arm and tilted his head, but said nothing in reply. "You have a bloody arm." Logan pointed out, figuring he'd have to state the obvious to get an answer out of the teenager. He gestured toward the bloodstained webbing covering his arm with a grimace, snarling slightly. "You been eating a lot of potatoes? You stink like iron."

He seemed to ignore his question and said, "Let's get going. I'm tired." After that he switched his luggage to his unwounded hand, having to set one down in the process. His arm had remained against his chest the entire time. It was lacking too much blood flow, probably. He stabbed the webbing with his finger, prodding it until it broke, and pulled it down with a little effort before he broke it. Behind the makeshift cast was the sight of his red, slightly inflamed wrist twitching, but nonetheless stopped up where no blood could come out.

Logan lurched forward in front of him, his hands in his pockets and his gaze set on his bloody arm. "So that's why I smell iron." He looked at his bloody wrist casually. "Am I gonna have to ask or are you gonna spit it out?" He inquired.

Peter's eyebrows had knit by then. "Long story short: my web-shooters jammed and I had to go in without them. Bullets flew, hostages were taken and the damn cops got there just when I was about to wrap things up." He held up his hand with a fake smile, continuing with a tone of cheerfulness before cursing under his breath. "And they started screwing up like usual. One of them would've shot me and the girl and Since I didn't have my web-shooters, I had to use these malfunctioning- what do I even _call_ these?"

He somewhat angrily gestured to his wrists, but to Logan it was obvious. "Anyway, I shot blood. How do I shoot blood?"

After a moment of staring at the teenager blankly, Peter sighed and drooped his shoulders. He nodded absently to the answer that went unsaid and Logan changed the topic somewhat.

"Hurts don't it?" He tauntingly. "Like you're wrists're on fire." To show an example he unsheathed one of his claws and scratched his chin. "You're gonna need to get that arm of yours checked out. Should be used to it now kid. That's what? The third time this happened?"

"Easy for you to say." Peter countered sourly. "You can heal a slit wrist in less than a second. It'll take a night just to stop this from hurting." His gaze darkened as he winced and he protectively held his other wrist with his injured one. It throbbed with phantom pain when he looked at a fading blotch of discolored skin. "I guess it doesn't hurt as much as it did then." He admitted. "But I'd rather get knocked through a building by the Hulk before I'd have that happen again."

Sighing, he picked up his other suitcase and they continued to walk ahead. "I clocked that one guy good for shooting at me. That is, after his gun exploded. Sent him flying to the back of the room too." Logan gave him a slightly incredulous look, but it faded quickly, as he noticed from the corner of his eye. He had sounded satisfied and he wouldn't take it back- punching felt _good._ Like after a long while of running or sleeping to stretch, only instead of his joints extending his knuckles were cracked against a policeman's jaw.

The pain that particular cop had felt was probably nothing like his own considering there was a big chance he was knocked out before he hit the boxes at the other end of the room. He didn't know which one he was rooting for though; if he was conscious or unconscious then. If he hadn't have gotten knocked unconscious on contact the pain or force would have forced him to be, and if not then, then his injuries would be much more severe from his collision with the boxes and wall.

Though in any case, if he hadn't held back just before then… "I would've knocked his head right off." He murmured with finality, causing Logan to snap his head in his direction.

"Eh?"

He shook his head. "I said, if I hadn't… you know, held back and really hit him hard I would've…" He paused, attempting to avoid a future awkward situation. "Clobbered his bobber off." His slightly cheerful disposition at that probably didn't help the somberness of his statement, however, since Logan still looked at him, scrutinizing. He ignored him.

"Sounds like you're getting slow to me, kid." The gruff man grunted and pulled a half empty bottle of beer out of nowhere. The words weren't what he had wanted to say though. With a small smile, Peter acknowledged the fact that there were numerous things he could have said and what he did say was one of the better things. Another would have been, "The guy got what he deserved," or, "You're getting the hang of it, kid." A bad one would be, "The hell is wrong with you?" He knew without a doubt that _Logan_ of all people wouldn't judge him on such things and if he did, he'd probably joked about it, as he would have even if he had said the last one, but it would still have said much…

He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling deprived of air. Turning, he saw Logan chug the remainder of a bottle of beer, a half, and toss it to the side, not even bothering about the lack of air as he had. Peter rolled his eyes; he doubted anyone would if they could re-grow internal organs.

He had not seen Logan snatch out the bag from his injured hand, but didn't object. He saw his point. "It's just a small flesh wound. I won't even have to worry about bleeding out." He looked around. "Again." He attempted to laugh and began holding up his wrist again to get a clearer look at the darkening stain on the webbing, but his wrist throbbed a numb pain in protest. "Never mind," was his resigned reply as he let his hand fall.

"We can get McCoy to fix you up when we get to the Mansion." Logan said.

He hadn't given a second of thought before replying, "No. I'll be fine by tomorrow. I just need some sleep and I'll be as good." Had it been a more serious injury, then he would be in need of a doctor. The thought of waking up one of Logan's comrades for something as self-inflicted as he had dealt with before, he knew he'd be fine to just rest. That, and the fact that he'd be better off without anyone knowing he was back.

His excuse, though bad, seemed to suffice and Logan, dropping the subject, shrugged. "Suit yourself. I still say if you were at the top of your game you would've been paying attention that wouldn't have happened."

He laughed. "I got back a week ago. Jet lag is a bitch. I spent most of the time sleeping."

The man laughed as well. "Excuses, excuses."

As he rolled his eyes, Peter cracked his neck. This neighborhood was dark, for lack of better word. It was humid, clean, and quiet, a stark contrast to the somewhat chaotic and busy environment he had been in for far too long. He scrunched his face at the smell of clean laundry and nothing more. No barking dogs, no arguing spouses or gunshots he had to attend to or police sirens. It was quaint- peaceful. "I don't like this place anymore." He murmured, shaking his head. "The forests in Russia are louder." Switching his attentions, he asked, "You haven't been here for too long either, right? You got back before I did., but I heard you got back to the mansion only a few days ago. What took you?"

Logan shrugged, somewhat awkwardly he noted, and scratched the shadowy remainder of his beard. "Had some stuff to handle."

Before he even asked, he knew the answer. "Laura." He stated and received an affirmative grunt from Logan. "How's she doing?"

He would have said many different things to his surprise, some with annoyance, others with anger, but he had finally settled on "Stupid and annoying," some seconds later. He meant to say "troublesome and overprotective", but Peter got the gist of it. "So," He started somewhat awkwardly, "how's she been? She still mad at me?"

"Yup." Logan replied.

"I wonder what I ever did to her to deserve being swiped at by her footy claws every time we meet…"

The girl, young woman, whatever she was, was extremely overprotective as far as he could tell. He could easily guess the reason why she had been so hostile the last time around- she had come out of nowhere to see that he and Logan were sparring and took his slamming the mutant into the bottom of the pool, which had been, unfortunately enough, completely full. The following hour had consisted of him dodging her swipes to sever his limbs and bat off his head with her feet. At the end of the day he had managed to throw her through the house and knock her unconscious, so Logan's amused answer was of no surprise to him when he heard it seconds earlier than he should have.

"You threw her through the house."

He tried to play innocent. "_And_ I kicked you to the bottom of the pool, the _filled_ pool, without being hit the entire time." He smugly reminded him. "Who's slow now?"

Logan scowled and spit to the side, _his_ side where he barely managed to avoid being hit with it, and grunted. "Lucky shot. I was going easy on you."

"Sure you were," his suddenly smug tone caused the man to growl.

Before he could ask, he asked himself. "Alex?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't know. Left after you did and didn't tell anyone, as usual." He sounded irked. "Aunt May is fine. She wanted me to remind you to change your clothes every two days and make sure you wear clean underwear." The teen stifled a laugh. "There's a sandwich in that suitcase you're holding. She made it for you."

Logan had nodded quietly. From the corner of his eye, he noticed him looking at the suitcase he mentioned and noticed a few slash marks across it. Gesturing tiredly, his reply to the unsaid question was little more than a loud yawn. "A few of Fury's agents stopped by before I went to catch my flight to see how I was doing; it didn't go too well. They didn't even want any tea."

Holding up the expensive looking suitcase, Logan sniffed the burnt slash meticulously and turned to him. "Natasha?" He asked.

Peter nodded idly. "She wanted me come with her to Fury so I could give a report to him." He chuckled. "That didn't go too well either. She is _not_ a pizza person, just so you know." He chuckled. "She asked about you too."

Logan's interest was mildly piqued. "What she say?"

His reply consisted of a lazy shrug with half lidded eyes as he yawned. "Don't know. I don't really pay attention to people trying to injure or kidnap me. She seemed way too happy about doing it too."

"What?"

"You heard me," he yawned. "The way she held that rope and stinger…" He shuddered dramatically. "I don't want to talk about it." Logan snorted. "Did the Professor get the checks we sent him a few months back?" He asked, referring to the Mansion. He noticed the man's expression sour at that. "Well?"

"Rogue keeps asking me why you haven't called her yet. Damn kid wants to know how 'Russia School' is."

"Ah," Peter uttered. "And what did you say?"

"People in Russia don't use phones. In Russia phones use people." He hadn't heard Peter back pedal to him but bumped his fist nonetheless.

"And she told you to stop being like me, didn't she?" The teen laughed.

"No. She said stop being a stupid idiot."

"Huh, she always said that to me too." He shrugged. "Tomato, potato."

Logan rolled his eyes. "You owe me ten bucks for that."

He waved his hand dismissively and set his bags to the ground when they reached a stop sign. "What time is it?" He had asked, but then elaborated, "Don't tell me you don't know. You have a phone in your pocket and mine is in one of these suitcases."

Rolling his eyes, he set one case down and dragged his phone out of his pocket, checking it. "10:39, Why?"

Peter didn't answer for a few seconds, only pulling out his phone to show what he was going to do. Even with that, Logan still didn't care to understand until it was explained it to him. "I have to make sure I have enough time to sleep." He muttered. "I'll meet you at the Mansion in five minutes, I have to call someone first."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "Which one is it this time? The red-head, the blonde, or the brunette?"

Holding his phone as if he was actually waiting for something to happen, Peter's twitch was almost invisible. "Jessica. Have you seen her?"

"If by 'seen' you mean getting chased around by SHIELD on Roosevelt Island and Jersey, then yeah." He commented carelessly, not noticing the curious raised eyebrow in his direction.

Peter made a face of disgust. "What the hell were you doing is _Jersey_?" Logan glared at him. "Laura, right. I'll meet you at the door."

Logan grunted roughly and started to walk forward, not bothering to pay attention to the blur of Peter as he leaped to the nearest rooftop in silence. It wasn't until a minute later that he realized that he had been stuck with the teen's luggage.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Somehow, he doubted that she'd actually pick up the phone one of these days. Her voicemail was almost full too. She probably still had that old phone that he sent her for their birthday a year after he left. It wasn't that great; then, compared to now, he had been pretty broke. No, _completely_. Absently, he admitted that he couldn't just get her a new phone on a whim, now. She was always on the run; "Finding out who I am," she said. Honestly, he didn't really care about that. She was Jessica, not his clone. It helped that she was a girl so that-

He vigorously shook his head. He was thinking about it too much already, and he was the one that thought that he was more over it than she was. Anymore thoughts like that and he begin start to shudder at the mere thought of her and cloning.

He'd left a short message for her to call him back but she hadn't even gotten the last one he'd left a couple of weeks ago before he caught his flight, it seemed. Given who she was, she was predictable. He had guessed her password for her voicemail which had been an event she probably thought he forgot from their- _his_ childhood. Granted, it took him a few minutes to recall it, but he realized it soon enough.

None of the messages she had left unanswered for weeks had been answered yet. Though he had only left one, he was curious as to why an interview for a _desk job_ of all things was even on there. Maybe if he had bothered to leave a message more often instead of just hanging up at the sixth ring, he could have found out sooner. Still, knowing that she wouldn't pick up at the first ring wasn't reassuring in the least, so he was testing his patience already. _"Jess, I'm back in town. And answer your voicemail already." _With the lack of importance in the message, he was beginning to think he wasted two minutes of his life, right after he called.

No one seemed to pick up the phone nowadays. Other than Jessica, Gwen and MJ still hadn't answered any of his calls. Each time he knew they wouldn't, but there was always a possibility, so he didn't hang up until the voicemail. It wasn't farfetched to think that they were still angry at him. The last time they spoke, Gwen almost hung up on him in just thirty seconds and MJ spent their entire call yelling at him before he 'lost reception.' In reality, his bad reception was caused by a well aimed bullet to his phone, but unfortunately, they'd never believe that.

He promised to call them frequently, or so they told him. But with everything that had been happening for the past two years, it was hard to make a call. He rested his head on his hand and looked at the ceiling. He was good at dodging bullets, lightening, lasers and knives, but doing all of that while making a call seemed a little over the top. He would have to practice that sometime.

A second later, he jolted up in surprise and shuddered. Maybe he spent too much time getting shot at recently.

And then he'd have to see Gwen and MJ soon enough as well, pending that they didn't answer their phones, which he knew they wouldn't, most likely. He was still unsure. Something similar to him being hit would probably happen. He wouldn't be able to see them tomorrow though, that was for sure.

Tomorrow wouldn't be a good day to be seen either, by anyone. He took a gambit by taking out those thugs earlier, but it wasn't like he had any choice in the matter. It wouldn't have been right to just walk away from _that, _obviously. But considering the fact that since he left, there had been _a lot_ of impersonators of him sprouting around, the odds were in his favor that the general public-and superhero community- would pass this little event off as another fake.

Fury was a clear exception. He already _knew_ that he was back but knowing the General of SHIELD, he wouldn't tell anyone. The Black Widow was a different case, which was why he had left her bound on the bed before he left for his flight. The batch he used to keep her down would only last about fifteen hours but she had probably cut through it in the seventh. That glare she had given him when he threw her on the bed before she got knocked unconscious made him want to laugh. He honestly expected more from her. Still, he doubted that Fury would be too happy about him leaving his number one agent bound and gagged on a bed where anyone could get her. The situation in itself even made his eyebrows rise when he had first thought about it five hours later, but by then he just sort of smiled.

She had brought it on herself. And if May had found out that he did anything unsavory to a 'wonderful young woman' like that, she'd give him what for and patootie and all that- which was why he had told her that there was an extremely skilled, extremely deadly agent of SHIELD upstairs knocked out and tied up when they over the phone. She had laughed at that, probably thinking it was some sort of joke. He had been gathering his bags before leaving the mansion then. Now, thinking back on it, he was wondering if she actually believed him. If she didn't, at least he wouldn't get in trouble for being honest…

He discretely pawed his phone and dragged it from his pocket, sighing and knowing that it would not say that he had missed a call anytime soon.

He shouldn't have been missing _any_ calls at all. No one knew his number except for Nebo, Aunt May and Logan. Not even Gwen or MJ or Rogue. Well, not for this phone. He had ditched the last phone he had months ago. It was just too risky now; and Russia hadn't had a lot of payphones in the country side, either. This would be his twelfth phone by now and he was becoming accustomed to just throwing them away.

Bringing his mind back to the present, he knew he would have to get out of the mansion before anyone woke up. From what Logan told him, they had a rigorous training schedule, almost as bad as his, and got up around six, or at the latest, seven. And it was now-

_11:58._ Great.

He'd have to go to Queens tomorrow after he left, free schedule or not. He had been putting it off for too long. The furniture was being delivered there for his stay and he would have to bring it inside. Nebo had warned him that the movers wouldn't be staying to help at all and that he could do it himself without arousing suspicion. What the man had _meant_ was that he had to do it himself without arousing suspicion; though that was because Nebo was too cheap to pay their fees for labor.

Fortunately though, they would be moving the things much too heavy for him, things a human wouldn't be able to move. At least he hoped they would. For some undoubted reason, he didn't rule out the fact that Nebo _was_ so cheap as to let them leave everything on the front lawn where it could be stolen. He didn't want to take the chance in someone seeing him drag a stove with his fingertips inside and still have the energy to take the couches, fridge, and everything else there too.

Logan would have to help, or at least be the scare factor/distracter to keep people from loitering around the house.

Blinking, he frowned with a grimace. Even with nothing to do he still had to get up earlier than most, sneak from Bayville to Queens without web-swinging, make sure that no one who knew him saw him, and then stay low for at least two more days. He'd have to avoid Hell's Kitchen… somehow. Daredevil knew what he looked like, or _sounded_ like, and he didn't feel like running into him. Brooklyn was out of the question too. With Moon Knight prowling around he would be attacked on sight if he was in costume, drastic changes to it be damned. The white clad vigilante would probably be blaming him for something else like the first time they had met.

Sighing, he leaned back into the couch, once again dragging his thoughts away from troublesome things, and glued his gaze at the ceiling. "This place is bigger than I remember." He muttered, looking about the interior of the X-Mansion. He tried not to marvel at it, but given the fact that he had only been there a handful of times minus two, two of which had him passed out in the medical room, he was somewhat lazy about it.

"Logan, you throw that plate at me and I steal your sandwich. I'm not joking." He raised a finger and pointed behind him. Seconds passed before he actually got a reply. Thirty seconds, to be exact.

"Kid, the hell is you talking about?" That hadn't been the reply that was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be along the lines of a plate full of food getting tossed his way that he would catch, followed by a Logan draining a bottle of beer.

"Nothing." Five seconds. Logan would shrug and gather a bottle of beer and a sandwich with one hand and a plate with food with another. As long as he didn't disrupt the action it wouldn't change so…

"Whatever you say. Catch." He caught the plate with his fingertips deftly, adjusting his hand before the food could fall off, and set it to the table before returning to his thoughts.

He supposed his schedule was entirely free as of now. No one, excluding Logan, Nick Fury, and the Professor knew he was back so there wouldn't be any interruptions. It could have been considered a vacation, and a welcome one at that. He was getting tired of lifting cars first thing in the morning.

"Peter, it is good to see you again."

From his place on the couch, he didn't bother to turn around and waved his hand dismissively. The reflection in the 45 inch HDTV was already enough for him to know who it was. He wished he had one of those. "Hey Professor."

It had only taken one minute and thirty-seven seconds for the esteemed man to come into the room, floating above the stairs even before Logan had gone to get him. It was better that way, as Logan himself was intent on making a sandwich at the moment. In a one second he would cut off his finger accidentally, growl angrily, the finger would grow back and he'd break the knife angrily and throw the discarded, severed finger in the garbage. It would take taken twenty-one seconds for that to happen. Five to realize that his finger was gone, six to yell a string of curses under his breath, one for the finger to grow back, four for the knife to break and wipe up the blood, and five to squeeze the severed pinky angrily before slamming it into the trash.

"I assume your flight went well?" Professor Xavier asked, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened.

He nodded absently and waited strumming his fingers on the arm of the couch and shrugged somewhat tiredly. "Despite the jetlag, yup. I appreciate you letting me stay here for the night. My house is kind of barren, at the moment." It was the older man's turn to wave his hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it, my boy. You are always welcome here."

He smiled. It made him glad that at least some of the people in the super-powered community appreciated his company. He paused for a few more seconds, taking in the reactions of his possible actions, and, seeing that they remained constant, asked, "Did you get the checks I sent you?"

He could hear Logan grunt gruffly from the kitchen. "The checks Logan and I sent."

The Professor gave a wry smile. "Indeed."

Peter nodded silently. "I had heard a while back that you guys ran into trouble- the attacks on the Mansion- and I figured I'd do my part to help out." He went on before Logan grunted more forcefully. "And Logan wanted to help out, too."

The Professor folded his hands and stared at nothing in particular. The reactions of his predetermined reaction were, as usual when it came to the man, as calm as water; predictable and reliable. At least it hadn't attributed to another headache like most things.

"I received word that you," he glanced sidelong toward the kitchen just as Logan was about to cough again, "And Logan have been quite busy since I saw you last Peter. All in all, the funds donated to our cause are well appreciated, but I hope you don't mind my asking how you acquired them?"

"Not really, no." He replied instantly. "Originally we weren't the ones who donated the money. It was only up until a year ago that we started to, which would explain the drop in funds."

The Professor waved his hand dismissively again. "In any case, they remained adequate for the damages for the mansion and then some. If you'd like to continue?"

He took a moment to glance up at the ceiling, and went on. "That means a lot, Professor, but I'd rather not talk about how we got the money for donation, if you don't mind; maybe sometime in the future." He stopped for a second. "A lot changes in two years, you know."

The older man smiled and let the subject go. "I wholeheartedly agree. On that train of thought," he began with a raised eyebrow. "I see you've changed as well. You've grown quite tall since I saw you last." He looked at him from the reflection of the humongous television.

He shrugged. "Well there's some really good vitamins in Russia; I couldn't pass up the chance to grow."

Professor-X nodded. "That may be, but I was referring to how you seemed to have matured. In your case, no offense intended, it's quite startling."

The Professor smiled at his rapidly growing grin. "Well, like I said, a lot can change in two years, Professor." Nodding sagely, the psychic turned around in his wheelchair and started to retreat from the room. "Sleep well, Peter. Logan will show you to your room."

As he left, Peter was left feeling a tad bit light headed. Give the man's abilities, he supposed it was a given fact that he would be wary about someone reading his mind if they could do so if they wished, regardless of their moral standing. Peter sighed and leaned into the couch, continuing to look at the ceiling again.

"That brunette asked about you." Logan said with a mouthful of sandwich as he sat in a chair to the right of the tv. Peter kept his gaze on the ceiling, only tilting his head slightly to ask, "What did she say?"

Logan laughed, or grunted, it was hard to tell and he wasn't trying to look at the man while he massacred a sandwich and the remains fell out of his mouth. "She's pissed at you."

He rolled his eyes. "Her and probably everyone else. I can't imagine Natasha is going to be pleased with me when if I see her again. Or Fury, or even Nebo when he finds out that she's in his room."

Logan widened his eyes and nearly dropped his plate. "When? Wasn't that a week ago? And you put her _where?_"

Peter dismissively waved his hand and cracked his neck before picking up his own sandwich and taking a bite. "Yeah, but he was gone already. He probably knew they were on their way to get me and neglected to tell me, so its justified." He laughed. "She bit me too. I don't even think she was fully asleep, either." He paused and tapped his chin. "Unless…"

Logan smirked. "She's always been a fighter. Tough as nails."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "And how would _you_ know?" He stared blankly at him while munching on the surprisingly good sandwich, a smirk of his own nearly invisible. In reply, Logan scoffed and took a swig of his bottle of beer and took another bite, ignoring his question. Peter shook his head. "I need you to come with me to Queens tomorrow." He stated.

At Logan's curious scowl, he explained, "Nebo said that he'd my stuff for the house would be here in a couple of weeks. _Tomorrow_ is a couple of weeks, and he probably didn't hire anyone to move the stuff in, and I can't take the risk of anyone seeing me drag the fridge in with my fingers."

Logan scowled. "Cheap bastard. And what the hell am I gonna do in that crapshack of a neighborhood?"

"Keep any thieves away from my property while I move in." Peter frowned. "Or would you rather stay here and lie to Rogue about how I'm still 'not back', yet?"

It was a bluff, and bad one at that, he had to admit to himself. But knowing Rogue, if she asked, Logan wouldn't tell, and she'd ask once more, and Logan _still_ wouldn't budge, then she'd get angry and petulant and ignore him until he relented. Knowing Logan, it'd be more of a pain to do that than anything else, because he would have to make up a lie and apologize. Though there was a chance he'd rather do that, occasionally flashing super sharp claws from his wrists did seem easier than doing the former, at least by Logan's standards.

He smirked when Logan grunted lowly. "I'll see what I can do."

Nodding, he finished off his sandwich quicker than Logan did and stretched. Logan, who had remembered something odd, looked up at him just as he was about to go to the kitchen. "If you've been in town for a week where the hell have you been staying?"

"Eh." Peter shrugged. "There's this nice little spot in the park where I can make this perfect nest of webbing; damned comfortable too. It's quiet, has a good view from atop one of the trees, and gives me a great view to the Empire State way down the street. At night, it's all shiny and bustling with lights and the occasional hobo stops by to piss on the tree." He blanched. "And then there's the 'okay' penthouse in the building across the street from it by the tracks that I stay at. 40 floors, okay view, nice and shiny and clean, but it just doesn't beat sleeping in a bed of webs and twigs while having to deal with all the animals and bugs that get stuck in there, you know?"

Logan snorted and took another swig. "You would know."

Peter seemed to ignore him. "I would rather sleep in central park though. I think the hotel staff is stealing my mints and chocolates, too. Some service." He rolled his eyes and laughed sarcastically, crawling up the wall by the kitchen door. Logan shuddered. "Honestly, the squirrels leave me better things in my web."

With a grimace on his face, Logan shook his head. "Sure they do."

Peter crawled over every nook and cranny on the ceiling like a dog trying to find a good place to lie down and frowned after a few seconds. Logan looked at him as he dropped back to the floor and yawned. "Room's upstairs by the second flight. If I were you I'd go out the window, the runts are waking up early tomorrow."

Peter merely vaulted over the couch and laid down. "I'm good. Nothing beats squeaky leather and crumbs galore." He said with finality and shut his eyes. For a moment he remained quiet and then cracked open one of his eyes and said, "You try to kick me awake and I toss you through a wall."

Logan grunted at him and sat down on the chair adjacent to the couch. Peter smirked. "Look at me- A hero, one who can outrun a cheetah and lift a sedan for breakfast, sleeping on the couch; oh how the mighty have fallen. You know I'd rather sleep in central Park. I miss the spiders there; they have great pillow talk."

Logan gave him a look. "You can outrun a cheetah?"

Peter shrugged and closed his eyes. "Probably… ish. Tell you what, next time I go to Africa or the zoo, I'll let one loose and let you know."


End file.
